


Shackled

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: 1980s, Book 3: Disorderly Knights, Gen, Handcuffs, Miners' Strike, Police Brutality, the Battle of Orgreave, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 21:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21380980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Jerott has been handing out water to the people on the picket-line at Orgreave - when things turn nasty of course he gets caught up in it.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Kudos: 3
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Shackled

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr, 9 October 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188232446754/he-watched-dully-as-a-mounted-officer-cantered)

He watched dully as a mounted officer cantered down the road in pursuit of an unarmed man. The miner tried to protect the back of his head as the truncheon swung, but he tripped, his concentration confused, and plummeted towards the pavement. A woman photographer, camera swinging around her neck, reached out to pull him aside as echoing hoofbeats skittered on hot tarmac. The truncheon came down a second time, glancing off her head, and Jerott saw the shock of injury in her eyes, the blood welling up like water struck from stone.

He could do nothing but watch, a bitter expression on his bruised and sun-darkened face. Forced to wait on his knees by the police van, his hands shackled behind him, he watched tempers fray and panic set in as the remnants of the pickets were hustled and harried through the streets of Orgreave.

Beaten for bringing water to the picket lines, or for his orange robes and mala, or maybe, yet again, for the blackness of his hair and the brownness of his skin, Jerott listened to the police gloat about life sentences and lasting damage. They had already decided that the rout had in fact been a riot; in victory they would be merciless.

His feet were numb, his knees aching with fire to match the pain in the back of his neck and the sharp line between his shoulder blades. He had tried leading some of the other prisoners in breathing exercises, tried talking them through an awareness of their bodies that might help them endure the stress position, but he'd only succeeded in winning further condescending blows from their guards. The baking June sun was turning the Yorkshiremen around him shades of pink and red; they were dehydrated and dusty, their blood drying in dark, resinous streaks.

Through this hellish landscape, he saw a familiar figure approach, moving with all the calm certainty of a summer storm. Gabriel wore a pastel rose pink kaftan that ended at his ankles. The thin cotton did not cling to his broad chest and muscular shoulders, but kept its t-shape, its crisp sleeves untouched by crease or fold. He laid a soothing palm upon the foreheads of the prisoners and spoke reassurances to the officers.

Jerott saw one hand rise, the finger extended towards him, and his heat-slowed pulse thumped with reawakened hope.

Gabriel accompanied the officer to where Jerott knelt, and crouched before his injured disciple as the policeman grudgingly removed Jerott's cuffs.

Cool, clean hands cupped his face, soft thumbs probed the swelling beneath his eye. Gabriel smiled. "You have suffered in the name of peace today, brother."

Jerott brought his hands to his front and gingerly felt his way around the sores the cuffs had left. He let Gabriel release his hold on him and lift him to a standing position, though his body was stiff and his head swum. The other prisoners winced to crane their heads and look up at him.

"What about them?" Jerott croaked, swallowing drily.

Gabriel guided him away, a hand firmly in the centre of his back, his expression pained and grim. "I can do nothing for them," he murmured. "They chose to fight. You were simply an innocent caught up in their violence."

He was sore and he was tired. It never occurred to Jerott to question this account as he was taken to Gabriel's car and allowed to lie down across the back seat. He had seen violence on both sides, it was true. And he had just been trying to help, he really was just a bystander. It was easy, then, to miss the lingering guilt hidden beneath the drag of bruised muscles and wrenched sinews. He closed his eyes and let unconsciousness take the troubles of the present from him.

**Author's Note:**

> In the AU Gabriel and Jerott are Rejneeshees/sannyasins/pink people following the teachings of Osho/Bhagwan/Rajneesh. Jerott gets a lot from the spirituality, while Gabriel is more interested in the opportunities for manipulation and gaining power...


End file.
